


baby come light me up

by garden of succulents (staranise)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (okay well first... three times), First Time, M/M, Ransom POV, Second Person, limited dialogue for people who don't like non-Russian speakers trying to approximate Tater's voice, waking up together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 11:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12958518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staranise/pseuds/garden%20of%20succulents
Summary: Wakingupwith Tater is the part that really puts Ransom's heart in jeopardy.





	baby come light me up

Here’s when sleeping with someone you admire ridiculously goes from good to  _amazing:_

It’s not the first time when he comes on strong, when he’s all up in your space, where he’s enthusiastic and generous and handsy. It’s not even the second time, when you come back to bed from the bathroom in the middle of the night and he makes a warm happy sound and pulls you against his body.

It’s the third time, when he sleeps through his alarm and you jolt awake, sit up and reach over him to fish his phone from under his pillow. You silence it and you can hear your own heart hammering. (You stopped using that ringtone two years ago, when it started reminding you too much of that 8am o-chem class) He’s sleeping like a baby, and distantly you can hear a coffeemaker percolate.

So apparently he’s not a morning person. You’re finding this out. And after you think about it, you conclude that yeah, he probably  _does_  need to be awake this early, because he’s a professional hockey player and his schedule is murder. So you reach down, very gently, and touch his cheek.

When he doesn’t wake up, you titrate. Little touch, hand along his face. Hand over his hair. Rub his upper arm. Say gently, “Alexei.” Wonder when you’re going to have to step up to clashing cymbals over his head.

He gives himself away by smiling. He was pretending to be asleep, drinking up the touches, but then you notice. When your hand stops his smile deepens, and he reaches up and grabs it.

“Good morning,” you say. “How do you want your coffee?”

He opens his eyes, smiles up at you. “Yes,” he says, and tugs your hand.

That’s–it’s–

It’s about you, who have always been comforted, who have sometimes resented your own fragility, being the one to cradle someone else’s head against your chest. It’s that he burrows his face into you and hums like a Tribble when you stroke his hair.

It’s about being asked for things you have to offer. You don’t even know how to explain why that means so much to you. It’s that he lets you bring him coffee. And then it’s when he pins you to the bed and works you over before drinking it.

Which is, it’s terrifying, because it makes this go from  _Fuck yeah, big one scratched off the bucket list_  to  _Fuck no, this might actually be something._  There’s that too.

But then, you know how to lean in to that kind of fear.


End file.
